


Those Two Bad Guys

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, creepiness abounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logic would dictate that Michael Blaine is dreaming, because he’s in a room with a man with eyes like a jack o’lantern and that’s not a real thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Two Bad Guys

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the kinkmeme:  
> "Arthur and Eames are those two bad guys  
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ThoseTwoBadGuys"
> 
> A little weird, a little creepy, a little surreal

~*~

Logic would dictate that Michael Blaine is dreaming, because he’s in a room with a man with eyes like a jack o’lantern and that’s not a real thing.

Or at least, not a thing _he’s_ ever seen before, and he’s seen a lot of weird shit. Has _pursued_ a lot of weird shit, to be perfectly accurate, although it’s not something he tells a lot of people about, because once people find out you hunt UFOs or pay out significant amounts of cash to be locked overnight in a house reputed to be haunted or that you have serious, detailed files on all conspiracies involving the Illuminati, they tend to look at you askance and label you as a crazy freak behind your back. 

Michael Blaine is a man who, in the tradition of the immortal Fox Mulder, wants to believe, and so although another person – a person less open to the possibilities of what might be lurking in the corners of the world – would instantly come to the conclusion that he was dreaming, Michael can’t quite brush it off that easily. 

The thing is that this man only has eyes like a jack o’lantern when Michael isn’t looking directly at him, and that could absolutely be a side-effect of a great deal of drug experimentation in college. He’s also taken a lot of weird shit –accounting students aren’t as straitlaced as everyone thinks – and some of it was experimental weird shit taken for not-entirely-legal pharmaceutical testing, so really, there’s no telling how much he’s fucked up his wiring.

It’s not that the man has triangle eye-sockets or anything. The man – he was introduced as Mr. Point, by another, British, man named Mr. Forge – has normal round eye-sockets, in a normal, if a little severe, face. It’s the eye _itself_ that’s triangular, and though Mr. Point’s pupils are black, they flicker like a candle flame. Something’s moving behind his eyes, too. Literally _behind_ his eyes, deep in his skull.

Also Mr. Forge seems normal enough, but he’s hanging out with a guy who has _triangular eyes_ , so Michael’s not inclined to assume that Mr. Forge is “normal” by any stretch of the imagination. 

Right now, Mr. Forge is sitting in a large, overstuffed armchair, right in front of Michael. Michael himself’s seated in a plain wooden chair; he’s not tied, he could probably make a run for it, if he wanted to. But he can’t see a door anywhere, can’t, in fact, see anything beyond Mr. Point, who’s standing directly behind Mr. Forge. 

There’s a small circle of light around the three of them, but past that circle, nothing but pitch-blackness and peculiar noises he’d rather not try to identify. He also has the unnerving feeling that Mr. Point would _like_ him to make a break for it, and that keeps him glued to the chair more effectively than any ropes could.

Mr. Forge leans forward, the first time he’s moved since slamming Michael down in the chair. Michael doesn’t even know how he got here; one minute he was getting into a cab, the next he was being ungently deposited in this chair. “Now then, Mr. Mayhew –“

“Blaine,” Mr. Point corrects, almost absently. 

Mr. Forge frowns. “Blaine? Really? What happened to Mayhew?”

“The other team took Mayhew,” Mr. Point replies – he’s American, which throws Michael for a loop and he’s not quite sure why. “Do you ever read the research? It wasn’t suited to us.”

“In your opinion.”

“In my professional opinion.”

They stare at each other a moment, then Mr. Forge shrugs. “All right, then, Mr. Blaine,” he continues as if he’d never been interrupted, “you, sir,” he wags his finger at Michael, “have been a very naughty man.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Blaine replies, although he’s pretty sure he does know what Mr. Forge means. 

Mr. Forge grins widely, as if this answer pleases him, and Michael thinks there’s something odd about Mr. Forge’s teeth. “Certainly you don’t,” Mr. Forge nods, tapping the side of his nose and pointing at Blaine. “This is all a case of mistaken identity, am I correct? You know nothing about some very rare, very expensive bits of nano – is that right, Mr. Point, ‘nano’?” Mr. Point nods curtly, “ - nano-technology gone missing and quite a lot of money appearing in your Bahamian account?”

Michael swallows hard; no-one is supposed to know about the Bahamian account. He’s dreaming, he has to be dreaming. If he were awake, he wouldn’t have the impression that Mr. Forge is blurring around the edges, because people don’t do that, unless one is under the influence, of course, and Michael doesn’t feel drugged. 

Of course it could be some top-secret government drug, but he doubts these two men are government. He’s not even prepared to say that they’re _men_ , in the strictest sense. He’s read a lot of alien abduction accounts, and this isn’t following any typical abduction pattern, but that doesn’t mean the aliens haven’t changed their tactics. Or that these aren’t a new kind of alien.

“That’s right,” he says, aiming for blithe instead of desperate. “I’m just a junior accountant, and I sure don’t make enough to have any accounts in the Bahamas. And I’m not involved with R&D at all, maybe you’re looking for Michael _Blair_? That’s his department, we do get each other’s mail sometimes - ”

Blaine trails off as Mr. Forge sits upright and slides to the edge of the chair. He shakes his head as if disappointed, saying, “I had hoped you would be sensible,” he sighs, “it would make this so much easier, on all of us. Mr. Blaine, we don’t want to hurt you – “ he’s cut short by a quiet cough from Mr. Point. “Sorry, **I** don’t want to hurt you,” Mr. Forge amends with an apologetic smile, placing a hand flat against his own chest, “but if that’s what it takes, Mr. Point here is well-prepared for that possibility. You might say it’s his chosen specialty.”

“I don’t know that I’d say ‘chosen’,” Mr. Point muses. “It’s more of a – calling, really.” He smiles, a cold, artificial expression that reminds Michael of nothing more than a Terminator, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep down the flare of panic that bursts in his stomach. 

Telling himself there are no such things as Terminators makes zero impact on the reaction, because even if they don’t exist right now, they _could_ exist, _will_ exist some time in the not-too-distant future, that’s just solid fact. It’s why he stole the tech in the first place, because he knows his company has a government contract to investigate the uses of nano-technology with AI, that’s how it all starts, and the idiots who run the company have no clue what they’re messing with.

“Well, one doesn’t have to answer a calling, does one?” Mr. Forge is saying; he’s turned to look at Mr. Point. “Although in your case, it would be a shameful waste of natural talent.”

Mr. Point inclines his head modestly. “They always say do what you love, and success will follow.”

Mr. Forge’s smile is as different from Mr. Point’s as chalk is from cheese, sincere and warming and utterly unnerving – how can one man have so many teeth? “And you, my dear Mr. Point, are the very picture of success.” His voice is fond, as if they’re old friends who’ve spent a great deal of time in situations just like this, and Michael instinctively knows that’s exactly the case. 

Mr. Point sticks his hands in his pockets and scuffs a foot on the floor in an aw-shucks gesture that shouldn’t be as unsettling as it is. “If we could get back to the matter at hand?” 

“Yes, indeed!” Mr. Forge turns back to Michael, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. “So then, Mr. Blaine, about this not-hurting you – what are your feelings on the subject?”

“Really?” Mr. Point scoffs in disdain, before Michael can get a word out. “You’re asking his opinion? Would you like to offer him a comfy chair next?”

“Nothing wrong with a little consideration,” Mr. Forge sing-songs, and just for an instant, Mr. Forge flickers and all Michael can see is his third-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kavanaugh. “Manners, Mr. Point.”

“You might _consider_ that if you had no intention of letting me work, there are plenty of other things I could be doing.” 

“Always so eager for a bit of the ultra-violence,” Mr. Forge says in an aside to Michael, who recoils at the reference as if Mr. Forge had punched him. 

Mr. Point, for his part, gives a derisive snort, and inexplicably, Mr. Forge laughs. “Mr. Point is not a Burgess fan,” he confides, patting Michael on the knee, and Michael’s skin crawls at the intimacy. “Mr. Point finds Burgess to be a tad….pedestrian.”

“It’s violence for violence’s sake, and not in the least bit interesting,” Mr. Point complains peevishly. “There’s no expertise to it; it’s like using a Tommy gun to go rabbit hunting – overkill of the worst kind, under the guise of a commentary on society, with no actual, productive result. No-one appreciates skill anymore; it’s all unsubtle hack-and-slash.”

“You have to admit that sometimes overkill has its place.” Mr. Forge leans back in the chair, tilting his head to see Mr. Forge, the very picture of relaxed. 

“I have to admit no such thing.” Mr. Point is tapping a thumb irritably against his hip bone. His fingers are just slightly too long. “Overkill is a lazy solution.”

“And that’s the problem, you see.” Mr. Forge’s words are directed at Michael. “Burgess offends his sense of _artistr_ y.”

“I don’t know anything about any stolen nano-tech!” Michael blurts out; he focuses on Mr. Forge and tries to ignore what he can see out of the corner of his eyes, because now it’s not just jack o’lantern eyes, it’s Mr. Point elongating, growing taller and narrower and….and _sharper_. “Look, I’m just an junior accountant, I haven’t got the clearance to even go into the R &D labs – “

“And yet,” Mr. Forge says, with great patience, “and yet.”

“And yet what?” Michael can’t stand it anymore; he snaps his gaze to Mr. Point, who is just a man in what is probably a very expensive suit, with an eerily blank expression, and eyes that are very cold and calculating, but round and in no way flickering. 

“Look, I don’t know where you’ve gotten your information, but obviously you’re not going to believe anything I say – “ he trails off in horror, because he’s still looking directly at Mr. Point, but in his peripheral vision, Mr. Forge is lazily blurring into a man with white-blond hair in a white suit and sunglasses and Michael has to jerk around to face Mr. Forge because oh fucking hell, he would rather see elongated Mr. Point than who Mr. Forge is turning into, even if it’s someone who only exists in a comic book. 

“If you’re finished with your ‘consideration’ and ‘manners’,” Mr. Point says with some exasperation,“we do have other work waiting.”

“Well, Mr. Blaine?” Mr. Forge stares intently at Michael. He leans forward til they’re kissing-close; he smells of tea and rosemary and something not-quite-but-almost sulfuric. “He is correct, we do have other jobs in the queue, we’re in quite high demand these days.”

He rests a hand on Michael’s knee, lightly, but Michael is very aware that the hand is attached to an arm that carries more strength than Michael has in his entire body, and it would take just one expertly positioned squeeze of that hand to break his knee cap. 

But perhaps foolishly, Michael decides to take the gamble that if he hasn’t been hurt yet, he isn’t actually going to be hurt, and finds the balls to stick to his story. It’s a _lot_ of money, he’s been promised a truckload more, and if he can just brazen his way through this, he’ll be set for life. No more hours poring over spreadsheets to find fifty cents gone astray, no more pointless meetings with executives who don’t understand anything but profits. He can devote all his time to research and exposing all the cabals who are working to keep the truth from the public.

“I don’t know anything.” He wants to pull away but is positive any movement now will be taken as an attempt to flee and then Mr. Point will be on him. “I haven’t stolen anything – what can I say to make you believe me?” 

“Oh, nothing, ducky,” Mr. Forge beams. He takes hold of Michael’s wrist, grip slowly tightening until Michael can feel bones grating against each other and he can’t help but try to pull away, fruitlessly, of course. “Because we _know_ you did it, you see. You’re not the important one, here, much as you would like to be. We just want to know who your buyer is.” He gives one of those hellishly wide smiles and with a jolt that makes his skin try to leap off his body, Michael realizes what’s so odd about Mr. Forge’s teeth. 

They’re _serrated_. In all other aspects, they’re teeth just like anyone’s, like Michael’s or…well, probably not like Mr. Point’s – squarish, whitish, placed more or less evenly – but the edges are serrated, like a shark’s, and the bigger he smiles, the more of those teeth there are, Michael can _see_ teeth appearing to fit Mr. Forge’s mouth as his smile widens further and further and further and 

oh _fuck_ Mr. Point is oozing towards him, stretching and lengthening, rippling fingers reaching for the back of his neck, jack o’ lantern eyes blazing like a bonfire and Michael breaks, _oh fuck oh fuck don’t let him touch me_ , shrieking high as a child, falling off the chair, scrabbling backwards away from the pair of them, towards the darkness and when his hand slides outside the ring of light, the hungry whispering shadows grab at him and he can’t throw himself into that unknown chasm, he can’t, better the devil you know even if there are two of them, he just curls in a tight ball, arms over his head, shivering on the floor and whimpering incoherently.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” Mr. Forge is clearly satisfied. “Really, Michael, you could have just said.”

“See?” Mr. Point’s voice is far-off and smug. “Everything we need, neat as you please, in a tidy little bundle.” There’s a sound that is weirdly like what Michael imagines a baby gargoyle would sound like. “Artistry and subtlety trump overkill every single time.”

“Yes, yes, it’s very impressive.” Mr. Forge sounds both amused and resigned. “I shall refrain from commenting on your lack of imagination for at least a month.” He sounds echoey and faint, but then there’s a shocking brush of cool fingers against Michael’s forehead and abruptly Mr. Forge’s hissing voice is right above him. “Don’t make us come back, Michael. Mr. Point grows very angry when we have to come back, and an angry Mr. Point makes _me_ angry.”

Michael whines, pulling in further on himself, and Mr. Forge’s laughter fades into the distance. There’s no sound of retreating footsteps, and what feels like hours pass before Michael dares to open his eyes, just a crack. 

He’s lying on the cold concrete floor of an empty warehouse, and he’s alone. There’s no sign of Mr. Forge or Mr. Point, but there is a photograph right next to his feet. It’s a beautifully composed photograph of Michael, unmistakably in his bedroom, and Michael is finding it hard to breathe, because the angle of the shot tells him that this photo was taken from the bedroom closet. 

Michael stares at the photograph, heart in his throat, wrist aching and starting to bruise where Mr. Forge grabbed him. In lovely copperplate handwriting, someone has written _Your shoes are a disgrace_ across the bottom of the photo with a fountain pen. Under that, in different handwriting and in felt-tipped pen, are the words _Ever the snob, Mr. Point._


End file.
